


There's No Escape From Yourself

by mymishaandjensenfic (ljunattainable)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Dean/Cas Secret Santa 2014, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljunattainable/pseuds/mymishaandjensenfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha hates this time of year. New year - a time to take stock and feel crap about yourself, who the hell’s stupid idea was that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Escape From Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange 2014, filling that so traditional of Christmas prompts:
> 
> Prompt 2: Misha/Jensen canon au, depressed Misha (fluff and angst :P)

**\----Misha----**

Misha tugs aggressively at the stray thread on the knee of his thin cotton pajama pants, trying to pull it out. When it won’t come loose easily, he growls at it and tugs harder, trying to wrap his whole fist around what little thread there is showing. What he actually wants to do is rip the pants, tear them into tiny pieces and fling them in frustration around the room. Not that he’s got anything against the pants as such, just life in general. The pants just happen to be there, and life in general is too vague to grab hold of and rip to shreds.

After roughly thirty seconds of fruitless attempts at pants destruction, Misha lets go of the thread. He loosens his fist and drops his head wearily back against the couch. Yep, the pants definitely represent life in general. It’s futile trying to fight against either of them.

Misha stares at the white ceiling of his Vancouver apartment as the noise of the TV continues droning in the background, just like it has all day long, the volume too low to make out anything that’s being said, high enough that Misha doesn’t feel like he’s the only person in the world. This is what his day has been like. Apathy, anger, apathy, anger, apathy. Now it’s nine in the evening and he’s still in his pajamas. It’s probably a bit late to get dressed for the day, but it’s not as if it matters. No-one will come visiting since no-one that knows him in Vancouver actually knows he’s in Vancouver. He hasn’t even told Jensen. He feels pretty guilty about that but Jensen shouldn’t have to put up with him when he’s like this and another layer of guilt isn’t going to make a jot of difference to how much Misha already despises himself. 

He hates this time of year. New year - a time to take stock and feel crap about yourself, who the hell’s stupid idea was that? Emptiness, loneliness, and self-loathing encroach on him without fail every year at some point around this time. In fact, the event is so predictable that every November Misha prepares for it by making plans for the whole of January, lots of plans. Plans that will exhaust him for the two or three weeks it takes to pass through this particular funk so that he hasn’t got the time to wallow too deeply in his own crappy thoughts about his own worth, or lack of it. 

Keeping busy doesn’t make everything better, obviously, but it does distract him, and at least it forces him to do all of those things he finds hard to do otherwise. It’s pathetic really that he has to push himself to do basic stuff like showering, dressing, and even eating, let alone call people. Or God forbid, actually go out and meet people. 

Only this year he’s alone in Vancouver having a pity-fest because some of his plans fell through. He tries to tell himself he cares, because he knows from past experience how self-destructive he can get if left to his own devices for too long, but he really doesn’t care. He’s got five days before filming work starts again, and although there’s other things he could be doing, definitely even should be doing, he’s convinced himself that there’s nothing he absolutely has to do. 

Of course, it doesn’t matter where you go, there’s no escaping from yourself, and being in Vancouver just gives him way too much time to dwell on how he never tries hard enough, how he never achieves the things he set out to achieve. How even when he does do something positive, it just doesn’t seem to be enough. It’s Pitiful. 

He breaks his gaze with the ceiling and turns to the TV. Some documentary about World War II tanks is on and there’s more banging on the soundtrack than there is the soft murmuring of voices. Misha finds the remote on the coffee table and turns the TV off. Silence prevails but he’s not sure that’s better. 

Perhaps he needs to wallow for a few days to make him better appreciate the times when he doesn’t feel this way, when he feels genuinely good about himself and his life. He huffs a weary breath. What a lot of rubbish. What right does he even have to be depressed? He’s got good friends and family who care about him, he’s financially comfortable, he’s popular amongst his peers, and he’s respected for his charity work. Other people are a lot more entitled to feel depressed than he is. 

Coming to Vancouver was definitely a bad idea. That people find out that he’s just a selfish prick who takes time out to feel sorry for himself is one of Misha’s biggest fears.

Misha squeezes his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palm as his anger at himself builds up. He makes a fist and throws a hard punch into the nearby coffee table. The pain of a bruise he can push and worry at will at least give him something other than his own self-hatred to focus on. He punches again, and yet again when it just doesn’t seem to hurt enough. The table cracks on the fourth forceful punch and when he lifts his hand up to look, there’s blood on his knuckles. 

He should probably feel bad about that, blood and cuts are much harder to hide than bruises, but it’s strangely satisfying to be able to see something for his efforts and he’s got five days for it to mend before he has to see anyone who might notice and wonder. As long as he doesn’t get tempted to do it again of course.

Then the door buzzer sounds and Misha nearly jumps out of his skin.

He could ignore it. No-one knows he’s here.

“I know you’re in there.” Maybe not then.

He drags himself to standing and pads across to peer through the little fish-eye lens in the door to see who’s there. 

Jensen. Of all the people it could have been, it has to be the person he really, really doesn’t want to see him like this. How the hell did Jensen know Misha was in Vancouver anyway?

“Misha, open up. Come on, man, the food’s getting cold.”

Misha flicks his eyes to the DVD player to read the time. Nine-thirty in the evening. He peers down at his t-shirt and pajama pants, bare feet sticking out the bottom. Misha can say he got ready for bed early so that he was comfortable. Except he hasn’t washed today either. He sniffs under one arm and then the other. Could be worse. He showered yesterday for the flight to Vancouver so at least it’s only one day without showering. The bloody hand is a bit more difficult to explain away so he tucks it behind his back in a way he hopes looks casual and not as if he’s trying to hide something.

He smiles because after all this is Jensen, but forces it up a notch to a level Jensen would find more normal, turns the latch and opens the door.

**\---Jensen---**

Jensen swallows his sigh of relief when Misha opens the door. There was always the chance Misha would pretend not to be in, after all Jensen only found out he was in Vancouver by chance, and Jensen would lay odds that he wasn’t supposed to have found out at all. And then there was always the chance Misha might have… well, hurt himself, or worse… and Jensen doesn’t like to think about it really. He has no idea how bad Misha’s depression gets and he doesn’t feel as if he can ask him about it directly, only keep an eye out for him and be there when he needs him to be, like now.

“Hey,” Misha says, sounding tired. He looks tired too, not exactly pale, because Misha doesn’t do pale, but washed out with dark shadows under his eyes. On the plus side, he’s smiling and Jensen thinks some of it might be genuine. 

“You going to let me in? I come bearing gifts.” Jensen says, holding up the plain white plastic bag from Chongquing, one of Misha’s favorite restaurants. Misha’s standing in stupidly thin clothing for the weather, blocking the doorway, his left hand leaning against the door frame and his right tucked kind of awkwardly behind his back. 

“Chinese food,” Jensen clarifies when Misha doesn’t move. Jensen smiles, but doesn’t bother putting on a show of excessive false cheeriness. He knows Misha will see right through him if he does, just like Jensen can see right through Misha’s welcoming smile. It’s fairly obvious to Jensen that Misha’s ambivalent about him being here. Jensen’s not leaving him alone though, whether that’s what Misha wants or not. If Misha knew how much Jensen sees and understands he’d probably mask his depression even better than he does already and Jensen doesn’t want that.

After what seems like an age, Misha ushers Jensen in, keeping his back, and whatever is in his hand, turned away from Jensen the whole time. 

“Did you bring something to drink, because I don’t have anything?” Misha says. 

Jensen stops only briefly to press a quick kiss of greeting against Misha’s lips as he walks past and then breaks into a sweat as soon as he gets into the apartment’s main room.

It’s like a damn sauna in here, which explains how Misha can be even be comfortable in the clothes he’s wearing. Jensen’s wrapped up for the Canadian winter and he’s going to need to change that pretty quick or he’s going to melt, but in answer to Misha’s question, Jensen holds up a brown paper bag in his other hand and replies over his shoulder as he heads towards the kitchen, trying to act as if everything’s normal, “I brought wine.” 

Jensen resists the urge to turn around to check on Misha, who’s unnaturally quiet, presumably still behind him, as he puts the bags down on the kitchen counter. Everything’s normal and don’t ask questions.

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” Misha says after a minute, like it’s an announcement of some importance, and Jensen grunts his acknowledgment, pretending not to notice how weird it sounded. No doubt Misha’s going to get rid of whatever it is he’s been hiding in his right hand since Jensen got here. 

Jensen’s worried that it’s a bottle of pills. He’d like to think Misha wouldn’t do that, but isn’t that what everyone thinks about people they know? After all, Misha came to Vancouver with the clear intention of not telling anyone he was here, and Jensen’s pretty sure he’s never done that before. Jensen worries at his bottom lip, and strips out of his coat and sweater, dropping them, his hat and scarf, on a kitchen chair. He toes off his boots and pushes them under the chair. He takes his time but Misha’s still not back. He’s taking a damn-ass long time washing his hands and Jensen looks through the kitchen door wondering if he should go and check.

He doesn’t. He can’t be here all the time. Misha might not be needed on set for another few days, but Jensen has to be. If Misha’s going to do something stupid and hurt himself, he’ll do it anyway, Jensen’s well aware that’s how this works. Jensen’s job is just to show him that being alive is better than being dead.

So, Jensen turns back to his bags, ignoring his anxiety, and pulls the wine out of the bag, two bottles, one for tomorrow night as well, because yes, he will be back, opens one and pours two glasses and goes to put the full bottle and what’s left of the open one into the fridge. It doesn’t help with the worrying when he finds the fridge is completely empty. Misha’s cleaning service will have cleared it out when Misha left for the hiatus. Misha probably hasn’t eaten all day. Jensen swallows a hard lump in his throat and wonders if he should call in sick tomorrow so that he can stay here, and he’s still staring at the empty fridge when a cough behind him makes him jump a little.

“Yeah, sorry. I haven’t had time to do a grocery run yet,” Misha says. 

“No problem, man,” Jensen lies, putting the wine in the fridge door and closing it, turning around. Misha’s changed. He’s still got the cotton pants on but has replaced the t-shirt with a thicker-looking jersey shirt with sleeves so long they cover his hands and come down almost to his fingertips. 

“I got cold,” Misha says in explanation when Jensen stares just a tad too long, and does Jensen detect an element of defensiveness? Don’t ask, he reminds himself. If Misha wants him to know, Misha will tell him.

He turns away, puts the Chinese food in the containers it came in on a tray, along with the plates and some forks. He’s not messing around with chopsticks in the privacy of his own home, well Misha’s home. Nearly the same thing. “Can you bring the wine?” he asks, nodding his head towards the full glasses, and heading back out to the living room resisting the temptation to see if Misha complies. 

He puts the tray on the coffee table and runs a finger along the crack that he’s sure wasn’t there last time, then heads back to the kitchen to get the DVDs he brought with him to watch on the chance that Misha wasn’t feeling talkative, and let’s face it he hasn’t said anything he hasn’t had to say just to be polite yet, so it’s a pretty safe bet he’s not feeling talkative. 

Misha’s standing with his back to the kitchen door trying to pick up the wine glasses without rolling his sleeves up and failing miserably in getting any kind of stable hold. Misha obviously doesn’t know Jensen’s there and so Jensen keeps watching, trying to work out what’s going on, as Misha finally gives in, rolls both sleeves up to his wrists, grabs the glass stem gingerly with his right hand, then rolls the right sleeve back down over his knuckles with his left hand.

“What did you do to your hand?” Jensen asks, because the reason behind the hand-hiding has suddenly clicked, and it’s such a ridiculous charade that Jensen just can’t not ask, despite his earlier determination.

“Nothing,” Misha says, startled, spinning around so fast, looking as guilty as hell, that he knocks one of the wine glasses over. The wine flies out across the floor but Misha’s fast and he reaches out with his right hand to catch the glass before it follows, and as Misha squeezes his hand around the bowl of the glass he winces and pulls his hand back, and the glass falls and shatters.

“Shit,” Jensen exclaims. He stares at Misha’s still bare feet. “Don’t move.” Jensen looks down at his own feet. He’s only got his socks on and his boots are out of easy reach.

“Fuck, I’m sorry Jensen,” Misha says, shaking his head a little, then he mutters so low under his breath that Jensen’s not sure he’s supposed to hear it, “Can’t I do anything fucking right?”

“It’s fine,” Jensen says, forcing himself calm. “Just don’t move, for God’s sake, there’s glass everywhere. Have you got a brush of some kind?”

“There’s a broom in the cupboard in the hall,” Misha says, and Jensen heads out quickly to go fetch it. When he gets back only a handful of seconds later, Misha’s crouching down with an evil looking glass shard in his left hand that he’s staring at as it reflects light around the kitchen. 

Jensen’s imagination fills in all the possibilities for him and he’s yelling, “Put it down,” with a frightened, hoarse voice before he’s even had time to tell himself not to.

Misha jerks his head up and away from the lethal piece of glass, and the sudden fear that flashes across his face is the real deal.

“What? Do you think I’m going to slit my wrists with it or something?” Misha jokes feebly, his gaze flitting away and his eyes not quite meeting Jensen’s, but yes, for one brief horrific moment that is what Jensen had thought. He doesn’t laugh at Misha’s joke because it’s not funny. They both Know it. 

“Jensen - ” Misha starts, but Jensen interrupts.

“What did you do to your hand? Show me.” Misha’s face blanks over but Jensen can see anger and nervousness there even so. Misha holds up his left hand. “Don’t be a smartass. The other one.” Misha looks embarrassed and Jensen kind of hates himself right now because this is exactly what he wasn’t going to do.

Without looking at Jensen, and still crouching on the kitchen floor, Misha rolls the sleeve of his shirt up his right forearm. Then he holds his hand out for Jensen to inspect across the glass-strewn kitchen floor. The back of Misha’s hand is going an interesting shade of purple, and the knuckles are raw with fresh cuts.

“Satisfied?” Misha mutters. “Don’t worry Jensen, you can’t hate me as much as I hate myself.”

Jensen gawks. “I don’t hate you, you idiot.” The fucking opposite, in fact. “Is it broken?” Misha shakes his head. Jensen inspects his face for signs of a lie, and not seeing any, puts the brush to the linoleum floor, satisfied. “I’ll buy you a punching bag,” he says as he starts sweeping a path through the broken glass.

Misha doesn’t respond immediately, then says quietly, “Punching something isn’t really the point. It wouldn’t help much, but thanks anyway, I appreciate the thought.”

Jensen pauses in his sweeping. The kitchen’s not very big but it seems to be taking him ages to reach Misha. “You want to hurt?” Misha’s still looking intently at the floor, and anywhere but at Jensen.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” And it is okay. Jensen pushes the broom again, and in two more strokes he’s reached Misha. He more carefully sweeps around him, making sure he’s got all those dangerous, tiny glass splinters. He’ll come back and do it more thoroughly later but for now he drags Misha to his feet and out of the kitchen and orders him to sit on the couch. Jensen goes back, rescues his boots so he can walk around more safely, gets the DVDs from his jacket pocket, fills another glass with wine and takes it all out to the living room, putting the wine down near the food, which probably is pretty cold by now.

Then he takes a deep breath, stands in front of Misha, the cracked coffee table between them.

“Jurassic Park or While You Were Sleeping.” He holds up the two DVDs, one in each hand. Misha looks up at last.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Pick,” Jensen says. He may inadvertently wiggle Jurassic park.

“I’m not watching 'While You Were Sleeping',” Misha says, with a small smile that’s the best thing Jensen’s seen all evening. He likes making Misha smile. He counts it as a win. 

“Jurassic Park then, just for you,” Jensen says. Jensen loves Jurassic Park. He feeds the DVD into the machine then turns back, and they both start talking simultaneously.

“Misha - “

“Jensen - “

They both stop. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Misha blurts out. “I’m not great company right now.” Jensen glances down at Misha’s bruised hand, now out and resting on Misha’s knee. Misha follows Jensen’s gaze, and moves his hand away into the shadow by his thigh. “I promise I’m not going to kill myself,” Misha adds with just the right level of self-scorn that Jensen thinks he believes him.

“I’m not here because I have to be.” Jensen walks around and sits close to Misha on the couch, wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs to pull him in closer, kissing him on the temple. Misha’s stiff, and wary. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Jensen murmurs. He lets Misha go. “So eat your Chinese food, and drink your wine, and watch the movie,” he orders.

Misha stares at him, then turns away, leans forward and opens a food box, forking some noodles onto his plate. He eats with his left hand Jensen notices, but that bruised right hand is something that can wait until later along with the glass on the kitchen floor, and the crack in the coffee table.

“Thanks,” Misha says with his mouth full, staring at the TV screen. Jensen doesn’t think he’s talking about the food.

Jensen watches, but doesn’t really see, the scene-setting shot of the dusty desert and its fossils. “When you do want to talk, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”


End file.
